'Here is a photo of the corpse. Looks bad, doesn't he? The midsection was damaged by raccoons, we think. Oh yes, there are some living in the middle of Manhattan, in Central Park. And goddamn rats, too, the size of cats. The autopsy mentions that the eyes were pecked out by birds. Hawks will do that, and at least three species live in the park: red-tailed, sharp-shins and Cooper's hawks.
'There was also damage by seagulls, it says, but the raccoons did the big job. Dug out most of the chest and belly, tore the body in two…
'Just one night in the open. Our beastly brethren show little respect.
'Our confusion, Yan, was caused by the clothes. Termeer's body was dressed in rags when it was found. The corpse was robbed, and there must have been a clothes switch. We figured this out later. But at first we had him down as just another homeless 'The body must have been robbed by a derelict. He would have been delighted to encounter such rich pickings: wallet, money, watch and so on
'Little chance to trace the unknown perpetrator or perpetrators.
'We found Termeer's dentures. Quite a bit of gold in them, seems surprising the bums didn't take them…may not have seen them-azalea bushes, you know-the dentures were covered with leaves.
'Apart from the robbery, of course, no crime seems to have been committed and that was after.
The commissaris must have asked something, although he didn't heard himself speak.
'Yes, Yan,' O'Neill said. 'Sure, that's where we went wrong at first. The corpse was found the next morning, you see, by kids, oh dear oh dear. And their father was with them, a medical man. The corpse was torn up, chewed by animals and pecked at-that doesn't look good in a public playground like our magnificent Central Park.' O'Neill scowled at Hurrell, who was looking out of the window. 'What do you have to add, Earl?'
'Right,' Hurrell said. 'Right, Chief. Tom and Jerry investigated. It was my day off. They might have taken note of the body's clean fingernails, the nicely cut hair, the trimmed beard and so forth. They didn't. Tom and Jerry had him zipped into a bag. They did take photographs, however.'
'Tom and Jerry' sounded vaguely familiar to the commissaris. Cheery New Age faces on ice-cream lids? Cartoon characters? He smiled.
O'Neill laughed. 'Hurrell's assistants. Happens to be their names. A good team, but they were sloppy here.' He scowled again.
Hurrell, feeling guilty perhaps, was talking now. 'Right. Eh…Yan. The mistake was that Tom and Jerry were fooled by the blanket Termeer seemed to be sleeping under.' He showed the commissaris a photograph. 'Filthy. See? Lots of bums sleep in the park. They're not healthy. They die. But that's no reason not to search the area. Tom and Jerry should have found the dentures but they didn't, not straight off. Maybe because they considered the subject was just another piece of garbage.'
In spite of his physical misery the commissaris became aware of a silence in the room, in which Detective Hurrell's labored breathing seemed unnaturally loud and painful.
'Okay?' O'Neill asked. 'Earl? You okay?'
'Garbage…,' Hurrell continued. 'To be thrown out. Tom and Jerry think that way. Don't care much about fellow human beings.'
There was the labored breathing again.
'Now then,' Chief O'Neill said cheerfully, cutting through what was about to become more silence. 'Okay.
So the NYPD kinda fucked up. Happens at your end too, I'm sure. But we did get it in the end, after Charlie showed up. This Charlie was Termeer's neighbor. It's all in the report. You might care to call on him. We had the Dutch nephew by then, inquiring at the Park Precinct house. And there was that angry foreign couple, the tourists, complaining-that wasn't handled to well either.' O'Neill rubbed his hair with a fist. 'Things kind of piled up. But we figured it out in the end. The autopsy report was clear enough. Bizarre, though. Sergeant?'
'Yeah,' Hurrell said. 'The corpse was Dutch. And so was the couple who complained. But there was no connection. There must be a lot of Dutchmen around town these days.'
The commissaris struggled against letting his body sag back on the couch. He thought he might be fainting. If he let on how he felt, the visitors would probably call a doctor, or, worse, an ambulance. He forced himself to appear interested. 'Dutch? Dutch tourists?'
'But Termeer was alive then when the couple saw him in some sort of physical trouble,' O'Neill said. 'Just not feeling well, which fits in with the autopsy's findings. At that time the subject was wearing his own clothes, of course. Tweed suit. Tie. Hat. He had been gesticulating oddly and frolicking about, after standing still for a long time, finally collapsing. Older man…open-heart surgery…'
The commissaris caught on to words here and there, which came close, wafted away, turned back, floated around. He wasn't quite sure what 'frolicking' meant.
O'Neill demonstrated. He held up his arms, fingers pointing at the ceiling, and skipped through the suite.
The commissaris tried to smile. 'And Termeer had heart trouble, you said? Open-heart surgery? Of course, that would show on the body.'
O'Neill sounded downright angry now. 'Jesus F. Christ, didn't we make a mess of it though? A derelict, who'd had recent open-heart surgery? Expensive dentures in nearby bushes? Blatant contradictions. That's what police work is all about, noticing things that don't fit. It's the discrepancies that lead us to truth, right, Sergeant?' He glared. 'We would still know nothing if that neighbor hadn't showed…'
It was Hurrell talking now. Somewhat defensive. 'Charlie did show and he identified the body as that of Bert Termeer, his tenant, a book dealer.'
'We still had it,' O'Neill said. 'Good thing. Bums' bodies don't stay around for long with our limited morgue space. They get dumped in some mass grave.'
'And the Dutch couple,' the commissaris said, pronouncing each word with difficulty. 'The tourists.'
Hurrell found a visiting card among the photographs on the table. He read aloud: 'Dr. (Chemistry) Johan Lakmaker…' He read the address: Nieuwegein. 'That's the town? 'Nyu-wee-jeen?''
'But your man wasn't dead when they saw him,' O'Neill said. 'We have to be clear here. And when he died, much later probably, his death was from shock. The cause could have been that fat branch crashing down. Or a hard object hitting him in the chest: a ball, a rock or something. A Frisbee. The blow wasn't severe. The bruising on the skin in the chest area that remains is slight.'
The commissaris tried to keep his eyes wide open. 'Shock?'
'Leading to a heart attack,' O'Neill said. 'It doesn't matter much what the precipitant was because, whatever it was, your man wasn't murdered.'
'Roughly robbed, yes,' Hurrell said, 'but after death. Struck by a branch. Or a random ball. No possible criminal intent here. Just happenstance, Yan, fatally connecting with a heart condition.'
'Seventy years old,' O'Neill was saying now. 'No spring chicken. All that running around the park, and then standing still, posing like some silly statue. Your man was asking for trouble.'
'Happenstance,' the commissaris repeated. He liked that word.
'You look all worn out,' O'Neill said kindly. 'We'll leave you our paperwork. It should be self-explanatory. Look it over sometime. No hurry. Here is my card. Phone me if you have questions. Get some sleep first. I'll have you picked up for the lecture tomorrow. It's my pal Russo's show, right? On modes of death or something? Russo will be all gung ho about Maggotmaid again. You will like that.'
'Maggotmaid?'
O'Neill raised a joking finger. 'Surprise, Yan. You'll find out tomorrow.'
Hurrell was doing his heavy breathing again.
'Ball,' the commissaris said. 'People play ball in your park. Like what kind of ball? Golf?'
'Baseball-softball-volleyball maybe, soccer, lacrosse,' O'Neill said. 'I used to play that. Used to be an Indian sport. A pretty rough game. They still play lacrosse in the park, Hurrell?'
'Some,' Hurrell said. 'We don't want them to, but it happens. Ball games are restricted to a few clearly marked areas. Park personnel are supposed to warn offenders. But there are always the assholes.'
The commissaris hadn't been able to concentrate. He was feeling nauseous too. So lacrosse was some kind of Indian golf? And there were illegal ball games played in the park? He felt too sick to ask for details.
The commissaris, surprisingly, found himself on his feet, guiding his guests to the suite's door, pumping their hands, thanking them. Excusing himself again for wearing his pajamas and bathrobe.
The burst of energy didn't last. He had trouble making it to his four-poster, where he collapsed, groaned and
